


Hot Toddy

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has been shot, fallen from buildings, been tortured. Coming down with the flu should be a walk in the park, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Toddy

**Author's Note:**

> I have a cold. Alas, I have no Coulson.
> 
> Disclaimer: Marvel owns the characters. I own nothing but my words.

**Hot Toddy**

Clint sits on a bed in the infirmary while a nurse draws blood, tapes up his arm and tells him to stay still until they get the results of his blood test. Clint, uncharacteristically, obeys. He feels like crap, has felt this way for the last twenty-four hours. He's used to being injured. He's not used to being sick. S.H.I.E.L.D. has the best healthcare in the world; for the last few years he's been in positively glowing health; he has to be in top shape to do his job. Hell, he's even had a flu shot. Apparently it wasn't the right one. Just his luck.

His head hurts, his throat is on fire and he aches. God, he hopes this isn't a weird intergalactic-type virus. It's been months since his last run-in with anything more exotic than the garden variety scumbag terrorist, he doubts it. 

He looks up when the curtain parts and the doctor enters. "Well, Agent Barton. You have the flu. Unfortunately, it's too late for anti-viral medication. My advice is to go to bed. Take the usual OTC meds, drink fluids, and rest. If you have trouble breathing, come back here immediately." She raises her brows at him. "You had a run-in with pneumonia last year?"

Clint coughs and rubs his chest. "Yeah. Budapest."

"Then you need to be very careful."

"I will. Can I go now, doc?"

"A long as you check in tomorrow morning."

"Yes, ma'am." 

She pats his arm lightly. "Clint, we go back a few years. Truly, take care of yourself."

Clint can feel the tips of his ears flushing. He blames the fever. He slides off the bed and stands outside the infirmary. He should go to his quarters. He will. Once the damn floor stops tilting. He leans against the wall and waits. 

Finally, the vertigo levels off and he starts down the hall. Of course, he runs into Jasper, who fends him off by making a cross with his fingers. Clint is annoyed. "It's not the Black Death," he rasps.

"Might as well be, Barton. You look like death warmed over. Have you been to the --"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And what? It's the flu. I'm going to my quarters and sleep it off." He coughs, covering his mouth with his forearm like a good little soldier. 

Sitwell still jumps back. "Don't let me stop you."

"You _are_. Move it, Jasper."

"What? Oh, right."

"Tell A.D. Hill that I'm 'indisposed'."

"I'm sure she'll be heartbroken to hear that," Sitwell deadpans. "Go quarantine yourself, Barton."

It sounds like a polite way to tell him to fuck off. He wanders down another hall. He looks up in time to see ... _Crap. Natasha_. He holds up his hand. "Stay away, Tasha. According to Sitwell, I've got the Black Death."

"I wasn't aware he had a medical degree." She lays a hand on his forehead and frowns at him. "Little Hawk, you are burning up. Have you seen a real doctor?"

"Why does everybody ask me that?" 

Natasha tries to look innocent. "I have no idea. Maybe your past history?"

"I'm not stupid, Tasha. I have the flu. That's all. I'm really trying to follow the doctor's orders to go to my quarters and crawl into bed. People keep stopping me."

Natasha takes his arm. "I'll walk you there and frighten anybody who tries to stop us."

"Thanks, Tasha. You're a pal." He's starting to feel woozy. "Just get me there." 

She does. Finally, she opens the door to Clint's quarters. "I don't know who frightened them more," she says as she carefully guides him inside. "You and the Black Death, or me."

"Hell, Nat. I'm more afraid of you than any measly germ." His words are starting to slur. He stumbles to his bed and falls face down on his pillows. He doesn't feel Natasha tug off his boots and cover him with the afghan she had made for him. He doesn't feel her hand trail gently down his cheek, or see the worry in her eyes. She dims the lights and leaves. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Clint wakes himself up coughing. He staggers into his bathroom and barely makes it to the toilet before he loses the little soup he'd had for lunch. Between the coughing and the nausea, he sinks to the floor, shivering, unable to move. Right now, he'd rather have a concussion and a broke arm than feel like this. He already feels like there's a bullet in his ribs whenever he coughs. That's probably not good. 

He can't take anything on his abused stomach, but he manages some water, then half-crawls back to his bed. This pattern repeats itself on the hour until he figures there's no point in going back to bed. He drags his pillow and afghan into the bathroom and curls up on the tile, grateful that S.H.I.E.L.D. heats the floors on the lower levels. 

He doesn't hear the door open. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Phil's phone rings. Not his cell, his desk phone, which means an internal call. He sighs. He had hoped to be going home in an hour. The shrill of the phone means he'd better add more hours to that estimate. "Coulson."

"Agent Coulson, this is Dr. Reinhardt. I thought you should know that Agent Barton has the flu."

"Really?" Phil sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Where is he?"

"I sent him back to his quarters with instructions. I know he has a history of writing his own orders."

"He can be creative," Phil says. "How bad is it?"

"He's sick. My main concern is that he had a bout with pneumonia a year ago. Somebody should check up on him periodically."

"How periodically?"

"Every few hours."

"Thank you, Doctor. I'll do that before I leave for the evening. If there are any problems, I'll call you."

He looks at his watch -- his father's watch which is an analog Rolex Oyster that he wouldn't trade for the world -- and sighs. He finishes his report and shuts down his office. He's on his way to Barton's quarters when he sees Natasha heading towards him. She looks worried. There's only one thing -- one person -- who can have that effect on her.

"Barton?"

"He's sick."

"I know. His doctor called me."

"Somebody should check in on him," Natasha says. "I'm leaving for Thailand. Fury's orders."

"He didn't clear it through me." Phil sounds annoyed. 

"It just came in. Hill is coordinating."

Phil isn't happy. He has a sniper with the flu and an assassin going out of the country, and he's been left out of the loop. "Stay in touch," he tells her. 

"Always." She is already walking past him, cool and deadly. He really shouldn't worry about her, but he does. 

He knocks on Clint's door and waits for a response. He repeats it, and then uses his access code to open the door. The lights are dim, but there is no sign of Clint in his bed. His pillow and afghan are missing. Phil's first thought is that Barton has gone to ground in the vents, until he hears a rough cough. 

"Barton?" He heads towards the bathroom, then stops. "Oh ... Barton ..." he sighs. "Idiot." Clint is curled into a tight ball of misery on the bathroom floor. He's shaking with an occasional tremor. His skin is dry and flushed. His cough sounds bad, but not like Budapest. 

Phil crouches down next to Clint. "Come on, Barton. On your feet. Let's get you out of here." He tugs Clint's arm over his shoulder. Barton is solid muscle, like Phil hadn't noticed _that_ , but Phil is stronger than he looks and even with Clint being floppy with weakness, he manages to get him on his feet. "Come on, back to bed."

Clint's opens cloudy blue eyes and gives Phil a weak smile. "Been waiting for that, sir."

"Thank God, you're delirious," Phil grunts as he muscles Clint over to the bed, and lets him drop down. He pulls up the blankets, gets water and some ibuprofen. "Take this."

"It'll make me sick."

"It will make you feel better." He slides his arm around Clint, supporting him as he takes the ibuprofen.

"I'll get sick," Clint says mournfully.

"I'll stay and make sure you don't." Phil decides this is definitely a bad idea, but it's also the best one he can come up with. He toes off his shoes and pulls Clint against his chest. He's heavy and warm. It feels good, though, to have his arms around his archer. "Get some sleep, Barton."

"Mmm ... You'll get the Black Death, sir."

"I'm immune."

"Okay." Clint moves, nestling. "Nobody's ever stayed, sir."

"I know. Go to sleep, Clint. That's an order."

"Yes, sir." Clint sighs as his body goes lax against Phil's. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
He wakes up to the unfamiliar sensation of not being alone. His first instinct is to flee, to find a weapon, to get away, but he also senses no threat. He comes back to himself slowly; opens his eyes. There is a hand over his, framed by a perfect white cuff and a black wool sleeve. He tips his head up. _Coulson_? What the hell his he doing here?

Clint is well-versed in taking inventory of his body. He remembers going to medical, being diagnosed with the flu. He remembers Natasha and Sitwell. After that everything is hazy, but somehow, Phil is here. 

He takes an experimental breath which does nothing but hurt and sends him into a coughing fit that sends Coulson upright on the bed. "Barton!"

Clint waves a hand, blinking away tears. "Okay," he rasps. "Cough." 

Phil's palm is on his forehead. "You still have a fever."

"Yeah." Clint collapses back against Phil. "Feel like ..."

"I get the picture," Phil says. He gently disengages himself from being wrapped around Clint. "You need water and something to eat before you can have medications."

"Not really very hungry."  


"I'll see what I can find. Can you stand?"

Clint gets up. The ground feels a long way down, but he's been worse. He clings to the wall until the room stops spinning. "Yeah. I can manage. Thanks for staying." 

"I'll be back."

"You don't have to --"

"Yes, I do." 

Clint could argue, but he doesn't. His traitorous heart wants Phil to come back, to stay. He just nods gratefully as he makes his way to the bathroom. He cleans up, manages to put on a tee-shirt and sleep pants, and crawls back into bed, coughing again from the effort. 

Phil comes back with oatmeal and hot tea. Clint rolls his eyes, even though he's pathetically grateful that Phil came back. The oatmeal is hot and sweet, with raisins and maple syrup stirred in. The tea has honey and lemon in it. It soothes his throat. He can't finish the bowl, but apparently he eats enough to satisfy Coulson, who holds out a pill. 

"Take this. It won't make you sleepy and it will bring down your fever."

Clint appreciates Coulson's knowledge of how much he hates sedatives. He really doesn't need to be any more drowsy than he already is. "You don't have to stay," he repeats.

Coulson looks slightly guilty. "It seems that I can't. I have to go to the office. I'll check in on you."

"I'm fine." 

He isn't, and lying to Coulson is impossible. Phil sighs. "If you can make it to my office, you can sleep on the couch."

"I should get dressed ... "

"It's Saturday. Nobody is around." 

Clint slides into his sneakers. Coulson puts his arm around Clint's waist. "If you're up to it tonight, we'll go to my place." 

Clint looks at him, sees his ears pink up, which nearly destroys him. "I'll be up to it."

Phil's eyes glitter with humor. "My grandmother's hot toddy will fix you up."

"I was starting to enjoy feeling like crap, sir."

"Don't give me a headache, Barton."

"No, sir."

Phil's office is quiet and warm. The sofa, Clint knows, is deep and comfortable. He lies down, pulls another one of Natasha's ugly afghans over his shoulders, and falls asleep as he listens to the soft tapping of Phil's fingers on the keyboard. 

**The End**


End file.
